


Prayers and Proclamations

by notjodieyet



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (they're very much present but this is also a very missy/river centric fic), Banter, Furthering The Buff River Agenda, Minor Twelfth Doctor/Missy, Minor Twelfth Doctor/River Song, Multi, Post-Episode: 2015 Xmas The Husbands of River Song, Pre-Episode s10e06 Extremis, gratuitous kissing, minor jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28821222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjodieyet/pseuds/notjodieyet
Summary: In Which Missy's Abandonment Issues Resurface (But Only Internally), The Doctor Makes Dinner, River And Missy Compare Their Husband's Faults, Women Kiss, And Missy Is Picked Up.
Relationships: Missy/River Song, Twelfth Doctor/Missy/River Song
Comments: 9
Kudos: 25





	Prayers and Proclamations

**Author's Note:**

> hey, look who can write a fic that's not about the vault or sleeping! beta'ed by the incredible petercapaldish on tumblr (androktasia over here). inspired by the rarepair discord server. title from florence + the machine's "all this and heaven too."

Missy leans across the kitchen counter, ignoring the way it digs into her stomach, and props her chin up with her hands to look at the Doctor cooking dinner. “We’ve made you into a veritable housewife,” she teases.

The Doctor glances up. “Where’s River?”

Missy lets her head drop, ignoring her disappointment; these days, the Doctor would rather busy himself with his blonde archaeologist than dip into a friendly banter with her. “Lifting things and putting them back down, I believe.” Usually Missy is more than happy to watch her, sweat rolling into her sports bra and yellow curls tied behind her head, brows furrowed in concentration, but she’d wanted a moment with the Doctor. A moment alone.

“And you declined to sit by the side and fan yourself?” he asks, continuing to stir the beans. “Here I was, thinking your favorite pastime was fluttering your eyelashes and sighing at my wife. I must have been mistaken.”

“Must have been,” Missy allows, her cheek still pressed into the cool granite. She considers leaving again: Darillium is dreadfully quaint but unexciting, her skills unnecessary, the Doctor blunted and soft and boring. She decides to give herself another day, if only for dinner and to fall asleep with the Doctor’s breathing steady in her ear.

A hand settles on her back, and Missy startles, nearly falling out of her stool. She twists her head around to find River standing behind her, a towel piled on her head, wearing a pink bathrobe adorned with glittering silver stars. “Talking about me?” she smirks.

Uncomfortably hot, Missy’s skin tingles. She shifts slightly. “No,” she snaps. “Should we be?”

“I wouldn’t mind.” River’s hand moves to brush against the corner of Missy’s mouth, as if wiping away a smudge of lipstick. “You two having fun?”

“Somewhat,” says the Doctor.

Missy slides off her stool, wanders away, letting River’s hand drop from her face. She swings herself onto the dining table and watches out of the corner of her eye as the Doctor rests his hand on River’s waist, pulls her close, whispers something in her ear. River glances over to Missy and responds under her breath.

Stepping away, the Doctor turns off the stove and walks into the bedroom. In his absence, River spins to Missy, a suspiciously self-satisfied look on her face, and she tips her head to the side to unwind her hair from its towel prison. “How do you make him talk?”

Missy raises an eyebrow as River pulls up a chair next to her dangling legs. She huffs a breath. “ _Stopping_ him from talking is often a more pressing issue.”

“He doesn’t…” River trails off, as if re-phrasing her sentence within her head. “You and him. You’ve been something for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Something?” Missy repeats, purposely oblique—let River struggle to define their relationship. Missy has certainly grappled with an explanation, especially now, when the usual hand-wave of _friendship_ and _rivalry_ seem too simple, too ephemeral, for their settled companionship.

River meets her eyes, refuses to look away. “You know.”

“Our dear Doctor,” says Missy, choosing her words carefully, “Is of the emotionally constipated sort. As I’m sure you’ve noticed.” She clasps her hands together on her lap, clears her throat. “Has he sent you to find out if I think he’s cute? He’ll be disappointed with the results, I think.”

“You and I both know that’s not true.” River reaches up to take one of her hands, sliding her sleeve up her arm to stroke circles across her wrist, her fingernails occasionally scraping against Missy’s skin ever so slightly. Missy feels both strangely comforted and condescended to at once.

She clears her throat. “I don’t care, anyway,” she says. “About him.” She can feel her hearts beating, pulsing steadily against River’s ever-moving fingers. It’s been a long time since they’ve betrayed her for lying; even her organs know who to fear most. “How was your workout?”

“Alright,” says River. At Missy’s prolonged, expectant silence, she grins and holds up an arm, flexing her impressive bicep. Missy feels her face tingle and she slips her wrist down so that her fingers are interlaced with River’s, and River squeezes them, grinning at her reaction. “You’re easily entertained.”

It’s true, but Missy flutters her eyelashes nonetheless. “You’re a skilled entertainer,” she says, letting herself fall into the rhythm of wordplay and flirting. She slides off the edge of the table and falls into River’s lap. “Do you think—”

“Yes, Missy, I can pick you up if you want me to,” says River, her tone bright and teasing. “At least someone appreciates all this.”

“I’m sure the Doctor appreciates you,” says Missy, pausing her shifting for a moment. The idea that he didn’t—that River might _think_ he didn’t—was positively absurd to her, considering the hours he spent talking about her and being with her and thinking about her so loudly Missy couldn’t help but overhear.

“I’m sure he does,” River agrees. “He isn’t very good at actually _saying_ things. Even with all his––” She winces, waves an arm around, settles on–– “Rambling.” 

“No,” says Missy, and adds, hypocritically, “Impossibly annoying, isn’t it?”

“You could say that.”

“And I do.” Missy shuffles more firmly into River’s lap, nuzzling their noses together with a giggle. They slot themselves together: River grabbing Missy’s thighs, moving her legs so she’s settled, Missy propping her arms on River’s shoulders. “The Doctor is a terrible, blustering fool, who won’t climb off his moral high horse for more than a second to let himself seem vulnerable.”

River hesitates. “Well…”

“Don’t deny it,” says Missy brightly, pressing kisses down the bridge of River’s nose all the way to its very tip, almost sensitive. Almost sweet. “I’ve known him longer. I know him better. I know I’m right.” She lets her tone fall into threatening, relishing the flash of jealousy burning in River’s eyes.

“And—”

Missy raises an eyebrow. One could scoop one’s hand through the tension boiling between them. She is embarrassed by herself, and by River; this is petty and juvenile and they’re better than this, and although she would never back down, she offers a metaphorical olive branch: “He has his flaws. Many of them.”

A pause stretches between them, taut as a tightrope.

“He wakes me up so early,” River finally admits, a laugh bubbling from her lips. “If he even sleeps. You know, he used to say since he was a Time Lord, he didn’t need it?”

“I think he finds it boring,” says Missy. She is used to a sleep-deprived Doctor, red-eyed and sluggish, determined to continue slogging around until he drops dead on his TARDIS floor. She finds the only way to make him cooperate is to grab him and refuse to let go until he passes out after a few minutes. A tacit agreement rests between them to never admit that the Doctor needed a good cuddling every once in a while. He pretends he doesn’t need it; she pretends she doesn’t like it. That way, they both get to walk away with their dignity intact. “And he doesn’t like his dreams.”

River leans forward to rest her head on Missy’s shoulder. “I wonder if that’s the price to pay for knowing him. The nightmares.”

Missy, who hasn’t let herself have a nightmare in decades, lets out a hum. “I suppose.” She fiddles with a sparkly, plastic star on the fluffy collar of River’s robe, accidentally pricking herself on the sharp edge. “I feel like the price to pay for knowing him is…” She trails her finger down to poke the center of another star, and raises her eyes coyly to meet River’s. “…Knowing him.”

“He canbe a bit standoffish when it actually counts,” River admits.

Missy settles closer. “And my God, the moral superiority.”

“You might deserve that bit, actually,” says River, her forehead crinkling, and Missy resigns herself to how this is going to go—she’ll re-evaluates their relationship, remember who Missy _is,_ realize she’s made a terrible mistake—

River taps her hand. “You okay?”

“Fine,” says Missy, frowning, examining her mesmerizing blue-and-hazel eyes. She doesn’t look horrified about Missy’s extensive list of crimes; she isn’t jumpy and frightened, the way Clara always ended up after a fleeting reminder of her dead boyfriend.

“You’re staring.”

“You’re…” Missy re-orients her thoughts. “Pretty.”

“Thanks,” says River, a note of amusement in her voice, and she kisses her, a sudden hot rush of skin on skin, lips brushing lips.

Missy jolts away.

River startles, rapidly snapping away from her. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry. Did I do something—I thought you—was that not okay? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” says Missy, her shoulders relaxing. “I’m fine. It’s fine.” She lets herself fall back into a regular rhythm: inhale, exhale, exasperated at herself. River has kissed her before, and it was all right, and truth be told, this was alright too.

Surprise, was all it was. Just surprise.

Settling herself,, she pats River’s face, pale and creased into concern, reassuring her. “It was okay. It was very okay.”

“Okay,” River repeats slowly. Her hands drift to Missy’s waist, with a comforting, familiar strength. “It’s that drama again, isn’t it? I shouldn’t like you because of all that guilt?”

Missy makes a sound in her throat, offended. How dare River trivialize her worry so easily? “I’m not guilty,” she says, defensive. “And it’s not drama.”

“Sorry. Not drama.” River leans in as if to kiss her again, instead pressing their noses together, so their mouths were bare inches apart. Her breath smells like mint and chocolate. “Another go?”

“If you would.”

River is soft, warm, sweet. If all girls with big arms kiss like River, Missy thinks she will only be dating girls with big arms in the near future. Missy lets herself fall into her, relax further than she has for years, surrender a tiny piece of the defensive wall she’s been building up around herself for so long. “Second time’s the charm,” River murmurs, the words tickling Missy’s lips as her mouth moves against them.

“Mmmmm,” Missy agrees.

A terribly embarrassed and uncomfortable sounding person clears his throat behind them, loudly, and Missy looks up to meet the Doctor’s eyes. “Hello,” he says. She wipes at her mouth with a satisfied smile, making sure to smear her lipstick across her chin, and takes a good look at him: he’s flushed and restless, his eyes darting around the room. “Hello,” he says again, as if it’s the only word he’s ever learned.

“ _D_ _oc_ tor,” Missy purrs, wiggling her fingers in his direction. “How nice of you to join us.”

The Doctor, now examining something on the wall behind them with great interest, makes his way around the table to sit across from River. “Having fun, are you?”

“Hi, sweetie,” says River, lifting Missy up with a stifled grunt, and adjusting her to sit with both her legs resting in the same direction across her lap. Missy loops her arms around River’s neck so as to not tip onto the floor and shoots a brilliant grin in the Doctor’s direction.

“Set the table,” she says.

“No.” The Doctor seems to have regained his ability to make definitive statements, at the very least. “I cooked. River?”

River sighs, nudges her as if prompting her to go away, but Missy simply holds on tighter. “Do you want to come to the kitchen with me?” she asks, and Missy nods, stifling an eager squeak as River scoops her up with a grunt. Her arms are steady and unfaltering as she props her against her waist, and Missy rests her head against her shoulder. 

Missy jostles slightly as River walks to the kitchen and pulls open the silverware drawer, withdrawing three spoons. She hands them to Missy, who clutches their cool metal dramatically to her chest. “Any chance the beans will be amazing?”

“Edible, at least,” says River. “Unless you distracted him.” She grimaces. “They might be burnt to a crisp.”

“Good source of carbon,” Missy quips, closing her eyes, nuzzling River’s neck.

She hears the opening and shutting of cabinet doors and the clinking of china, the soft sound of socked feet against tile and then wood, the smack of the Doctor’s lips as he kisses River. Missy snaps her eyes open. “Hello?”

The Doctor chuckles and kisses her, too, quick and gentle on the mouth. Missy almost clambers out of River’s arms to get closer, stay with him longer, give in that constant tugging in her chest. “Thank you,” he says, and she snaps out of it.

River sets Missy down on a chair next to her and begins to scoop beans on her plate. “Good day, honey?”

“All right,” says the Doctor. “I did some fiddling with the automatic voice commands, because someone coded the words ‘thank you’ to register as ‘please fill the command room with dry spaghetti’—”

Missy pouts. “You were busy. I was bored.”

“The crunching was beginning to wound the psyche,” says the Doctor.

“That was the point,” Missy mutters.

“Sounds wonderful,” says River, taking a great big bite of beans. “These aren’t bad. Minimal carbon.”

“Minimal distraction.”

“Hm?” the Doctor asks, looking up from his beans, carefully arranged into the schematics of a jet plane.

“Nothing, dear. Bread?” Missy offers.

“No, thank you.”

Missy snatches a roll up for herself and bites into it with vigor, tearing at the soft crust. “Suit yourself,” she says as she chews. “I spent some lovely quality time with River.”

“I saw.” The Doctor’s words are short, awkward, as if he’s trying to retain as many as he can without his words slipping away once again. “You seemed like you had fun.”

She smirks, breaks off a more delicate bite of bread, pops it in her mouth. “Oh, loads. River?” She crooks her finger in River’s direction, and River shifts forward, her fingers propping underneath Missy’s chin to draw it up, kisses her. “Thanks very much. Doctor?”

She tilts her head to sweep her gaze across the Doctor, sitting on the other side of the table. His shoulders are snug against his ears, his face sour, a blush glowing hot on his face. “Hmph!” he announces.


End file.
